


And Side Step the Little Bits of History Repeating

by shirogiku



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/M, Flashbacks, Lord Harry, M/M, Minor Character Death, Party like it's the 1950s, Power Play, Pre-Canon, Season/Series 04, Sex On Top Of A Car Bonnet, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One may be given a new lesson in discipline and subordination in the strangest of places: on top of his car bonnet, on a bed, drenched with the blood of a dead whore -- if his teacher is none other than Hal Yorke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Side Step the Little Bits of History Repeating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Whatever fetish I decide myself to cast you in](https://archiveofourown.org/works/410420) by [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah). 



> Disclaimer: _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from “History Repeating” by Shirley Bassey. Other songs referenced: "Daydream In Blue" by I Monster and "Somewhere beyond the sea" by Frank Sinatra.  
> 

Cutler sits back in his executive office chair and looks at the car models, imagining himself racing down the Côte d'Azur or maybe Ibiza, the stereo blaring and the salty wind blowing in his face.  _Somewhere beyond the sea_. A solitary white yacht in the middle of a blue bay. Champagne, black caviar and oysters. An invitation to _Le Festival International du Film de Cannes_.  Cocktails and carnivals in Brazil.  
  
Cutler's a bit of a daydreamer. _I fell asleep amid the flowers, for a couple of hours, on a beautiful day_.   
  
He’s got his sepia-colored memories safely stashed away, leafing through them every so often, stuck on an endless repeat. Like an iPod.  
  
Cutler’s got a favourite tune.  
  
***  
  
His shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands covered in thick soap bubbles, Cutler wrings out the cloth into the metal bucket before bending over his car and dragging the cloth lengthwise across the bonnet. His every movement is deliberately slow, sinuous and, dare he say, seductive .  And then he spots a stain and rubs at it viciously, breaking the rhythm and for the moment honestly engrossed in the act.  
  
“Don’t move it in circles, or you’ll create swirl marks,” Hal comments in a tone that spells he’s bored out of his mind.  
  
Cutler gives him an exasperated look. It’s _Cutler’s_ bloody car -- he’s bought it on his own pay, sweat, and tears, thank you very much  -- and he’s _ somehow  _managed to wash it for  years without Hal’s intervention. And, while they’re on the subject, _ no_, he doesn’t need a new one, convertible or not.  
  
His reply comes out snappish, not quite in touch with his usual sarcasm. “Oh, _ great_, so now I’m doing _ this  _wrong too? What’s next? You’ll criticise how I brush my teeth? Or how I tie up my shoelaces?”  
  
Hal’s gaze drops as he points out nonchalantly, ”You’ve got one shoe untied. Don’t be surprised if you step on it and trip, like the last time.” He looks up again, his mouth quirking into a lopsided smirk.  
  
“That’s not the sodding point!” Cutler’s eyes blaze with pent-up anger. ”Stop patronising me and controlling my every step like you own me!”   
  
Cutler glowers at Hal’s impassive mien and then his mouth falls open at the gravity of what he’s just shouted. He takes an instinctive step back, bumping against the car.  
  
Hal saunters towards him like a jaguar on a prowl, his smirk growing wider. Cutler swallows nervously, the wet cloth slipping out of his hand.   
  
Hal presses his palm against Cutler’s chest and pushes him up the bonnet, nudging his legs apart with his hip. Cutler shivers from the touch, and not from the cold water soaking through his trousers.  
  
“The thing is, my dearest Nick...” Hal’s fingers tap against Cutler’s collarbone and he leans forward, whispering into Cutler’s ear. “... that I do, in fact, own you.” He nibbles Cutler’s earlobe. “Body and what’s left of your soul.” He pushes Cutler flat on his back, looming over him. “The real question here is why a fairly clever man like yourself have failed to comprehend that.” Hal’s hand is at the buckle of Cutler’s belt. “I’m disappointed, Nick.” The tone makes Nick flinch.  
  
“It’s evident you are in a _ dire _need of a reminder of your position.” Hal tugs Cutler’s pants down and enters him roughly.  
  
Cutler will remember it as one of their best. Hal will forget about it entirely.  
  
***  
  
The corners of Hal’s mouth are drawn up in a clipped, sardonic non-smile. He flicks his fingers, letting the cigarette ashes fall onto the hotel carpet.   
  
“Sloppy,” is his verdict. He purses his lips for emphasis as he says it. Cutler has learned Hal down to his every mannerism, like he’d studied law and Latin, and, just like with those two, it will never be enough.  
  
Cutler’s white undershirt is stained red, blood mingled with sweat. Salt, all of it. He swallows a useless protest: ‘and that’s _ all_? _ sloppy_?’ and sits back on his heels, and hey, he didn’t know he was this flexible. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done, then?”  
  
Hal’s lips are pulled into a proper smirk, a malicious glint to his dark eyes, and he’s already on his feet, circling around the bed and coming at Cutler from behind. He tangles his fingers in Cutler’s hair, perfectly manicured nails scraping against Cutler’s scalp, and forces his head backwards. “Did you think I would refuse?”  
  
Cutler looks up at him, almost vertiginous and tingling with anticipation. “I’d been hoping you wouldn’t.”  
  
Hal props one knee on the mattress and leans over him, his tongue darting out to lick off a smear of blood and grazing against Nick’s lips.  
  
“Impertinent,” Hal remarks. It’s not always  what he says, it’s  how  he says it. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, luring people away from their homes. “Perhaps, we should discuss _ discipline _ first.”  
  
Nick offers him his best come-hither look.  
  
“Or perhaps not.” Hal pushes him face-first into the mattress, without bothering to tidy up the space first. Nick turns his head, unwittingly meeting the dead whore’s eyes.   
  
Hal kicks Nick’s legs further apart, the stretch of the muscles searing like a burn, and holds him down. “I’ve taught you how to talk, I’ve taught you how to drink and now you’re asking me to teach you how to fuck?” Hal laughs darkly. “Are there any limits to your incompetence?”  
  
Nick winces and replies, his voice muffled by the pillow, “I didn’t mean it quite like that.”  
  
Hal releases him abruptly. “In that case, you’ll have to be more specific in verbalizing your wishes.”  
  
“Wait.” Nick rolls to his side and sits up, his hand pressing into a large blood stain. “Alright. I want you to fuck me.”  
  
Hal raises an eyebrow. “When  _don’t_ you?”  
  
“ _Please_ ,” Nick adds, now a little desperate.  
  
“Get back to me once you have a more convincing proposal.” Hal moves towards the door, smoothing out his clothes. “And clean up the mess.”  
  
He leaves.


End file.
